Hot as Hell
by MuddledMusings
Summary: Dean finds that inevitable envelope, and suddenly two plus two makes five.  Gen.  Presereis.  Rated for language.


Hot as Hell (and it's all gonna leave)

Dean moved through the kitchen slowly and stiffly. It was difficult to control his body in the haze of heat that weighed him down and pressed on the back of his mind. He hovered before the stove for a moment, pondered breakfast. Sam would be up soon for school, so he really did need to make something, but it was so God damn hot. He lazily draped one arm through the fridge door handle and yanked it open. The cool air hit him suddenly, and he sighed into it. His arm snaked in to wrap around a carton of eggs. Dean let the door swing closed on its own; it was too hot to push it shut with any effort. As he drew closer to the stove again, he thought briefly of the cool air of the fridge and then the heat of the stove. He turned back roughly, shoved the eggs once more into the fridge, and pulled out the milk instead. It was too hot for eggs, too hot for it to be God damned possible to be alive, and so it was cereal for breakfast.

He pulled two bowls out of the dish rack, setting one before him and the other across the tiny table. The only cereal they had left was corn flakes, and he guessed that would have to do because he was sure as hell not _making_ breakfast. After pouring a satisfying amount of cereal into his bowl, he poured a stream of milk on it, and with a spoon in hand, he sunk into his chair.

Sam stumbled into the kitchen just as Dean was taking his first bite. He looked up as Sam blinked sleep out of his eyes and settled into the chair opposite Dean. "Dad didn't get back last night, did he?" Sam asked as he poured his own bowl of cereal and milk.

"No," Dean replied, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. He wished he could've been with Dad right then. Sam was more than old enough to take care of himself, a point Sam was always eager to bring to his and Dad's attention, but Dean got pretty beat up on the last hunt, and Dad wasn't eager to get him back in the saddle. "Called to say he won't be back until Monday at least."

Sam rolled his eyes from above his spoon. "We already knew that."

Dean shrugged. "Well, not for sure. He was just clarifying, I guess."

"Whatever. A weekend of no drills is fine with me. I've got to study."

Dean's eyebrows shot up and the spoon froze on the way to his mouth. "No way, geek boy," he said, raising his voice in that 'I'm older, so shut up' sort of way. "If I'm stuck here this weekend, then we're doing something."

"I've got finals in two weeks, Dean!"

Dean pushed his spoon into his mouth. "Exactly," he grunted through a mouthful of corn flakes. Briefly, he fought a losing battle to keep them in his mouth. "You've got two weeks, and this is a _weekend_. Don't tell me you can't spare one Friday night? You can study Sunday."

"What happened to Saturday?"

"You've already dedicated it to practicing your aim with me," Dean said with an innocent smile.

"No way, man, Dad's gone! I'm not training if he's not here to make me!" Dean looked putout for a moment and swirled his cereal with his spoon idly before glancing up with a grin again.

"Lake?" he asked with one eyebrow raised in hope.

Sam scraped the last of his cereal from his bowl. He looked up with a glance out the window. Dean could already see Sam's submission etched into the lines of his face and shoulders; he grinned even wider. Sam caught Dean's face out of the corner of his eye, and turned on him. "I haven't said yes yet!"

"Dude, I know you, and it's hot as hell out. You're gonna say yes."

"Alright, fine, I'll go, but just tomorrow."

"And tonight," Dean added.

Sam glared at him before sighing in defeat. "Yeah, alright, and we'll go tonight."

Dean reclined in his chair and flicked a stray corn flake on the table at his brother. "You don't need to look so pissed off about it, man. I don't know any other high school kid who gets angry about being forced to go swimming instead of studying."

Sam brushed the cereal piece away from him, and rose from his chair to deposit his bowl and spoon in the sink. "You don't know any other high school kids, _period_."

Dean shrugged. "Not the point, Sammy. The point was you're a freak."

As Sam walked back across the kitchen, he stopped to smack Dean on the side of the head. Dean gave a look of mock indignation and swatted back at Sam. He dodged it, and laughed at Dean as he headed out of the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later, Dean was flipping through the newspaper with the phone pressed to his ear as Sam poked his head back through the doorway. "I'm leaving," he said.

"Super," Dean replied absently. He waved a hand at Sam without looking up and flipped another page in the paper.

"Is that Dad?" Sam asked, nodding towards the phone.

"Yeah," he said briskly.

"What does he want?" Sam questioned as his brow knit, and Dean could see his good mood evaporate slightly.

"Just some names, Sammy. No big deal." Sam sighed and ducked out from the doorframe. Dean glanced up at his retreating form with a frown, and then pressed one palm over the mouthpiece of the phone. "Sam!" he called out.

"What?" he heard bounce back down the hallway.

"This doesn't change tonight's plans!"

He could almost sense Sam rolling his eyes, accompanied by the sound of light laughter. A few seconds later, Sam's footsteps echoed down the hall once more, and then the door slammed shut.

His eyes continued to scan the newspaper page. Dean let his fingers graze over the paper, and then come to a stop just below a picture. He read the caption quickly, and then pressed the phone back to his ear. "Dad?" he asked.

"Yeah, Dean, did you find it?"

"Nicole Reese died Tuesday, sister to Nathaniel Reese, who was the owner of the Firefly Lodge for fifty two years. You figure out what's going on yet?"

"Something with the fireflies, I think. Don't know for sure yet. Hey, Sam has a book on old nature legends, right? He bought it in when we were in Sedona."

"From years ago, yeah, I think. It's pretty much crap, though, Dad. Stuff somebody made up just to get a little money off the tourists passing through."

"Spirits tend to be born from stories and legends, Dean. Do me a favor and find the book. Call back if you read anything useful."

"Yes, sir," and the phone went dead on the other end. Dean put the phone back on the stand on the counter, and dragged himself out of the kitchen. He glanced at the dishes on his way out. He'd do them later. Or maybe he'd race Sam at the lake and conveniently mention the loser had to do the dishes. He grinned at the prospect and moved down the hallway.

The room he and Sam shared was tiny, just like everything else in the apartment. It had two unmade beds pushed to the walls of the room, and in the middle was a small, slightly abused nightstand. Sam had a few text books on the floor beside his bed; Dean had a few magazines next to his. There was a littering of other things strewn about the floor, spare bits of paper and the like, but nothing of much interest to anybody, including Sam and Dean. The most important things in the room were shoved out of sight. Two guns were in the nightstand drawer, knives were under both their mattresses, two boxes of mythology books resided under Sam's bed, and Dean had a bag of weapons and a bag of salt under his own. Both boys also had a duffel bag of the few other random things that belonged to them shoved under their beds. Their clothes were in a basket by the door.

He moved to Sam's bed and dropped to his knees to peer beneath it. Number one rule when searching for something in a Winchester dwelling: do not shove your hand in something without looking first. You never knew where somebody had shoved a knife in a hurry. The area under Sam's bed appeared to be clear of loose weapons, and so Dean set about running his hand under it for the book boxes. He found one, pulled it out, and went through it. Spirits, werewolves, creatures of the undead, Latin incantations – all were subject matters that stared back at him, but there was nothing involving nature or bugs. He pulled out the second box to find – nothing. Dean scowled as he moved the box aside to join the other one in the middle of the room and then lied down on his side so that he could more clearly see under the bed. Sam was not one to throw away books, especially books on anything supernatural when Dad might have his hide later.

Sam's duffel bag was shoved toward the end of the bed, so Dean stretched for it. Sometimes he kept books he couldn't jam in the boxes there, or maybe Sam had been doing some 'light' reading again. He was able to get a hold of one of the straps on the duffel bag and yanked it out. There was nothing much in it. It held a few non-supernatural books, Sam's favorite knife, a couple pairs of socks, and that was pretty much it. Dean rolled his eyes. His brother was such a goody two shoes. Except for the whole family knife collection thing, there was absolutely nothing incriminating. He shoved the duffel towards the boxes away from the bed, and scanned the area under it once more. Behind where the bag was, he spotted something and stretched his hand towards it. It was difficult to reach, but his fingers brushed across something hard and then rough, and then he swore loudly when he got a paper cut, but the item was definitely a book. Dean stretched further and was able to swat the book toward him. He knocked it a little too hard, however, when he realized he could no longer feel it. The metal bed frame was jabbing into his arm in an annoyingly painful way, so he shifted his position again. Wiping a few beads of sweat from his forehead, he twisted onto his back and turned his head. It was easier to see from this position, although not as easy to reach. However, he was right, and the book was there with something stupid like 'Nature Within' scrawled across the spine, but there was something else there, too.

It must have been knocked out from behind the book and bag when he was moving stuff around, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out what it was. Paper, it looked like. It was white, and in the dim light from beneath the bed, he could just make out what looked to be an envelope, a freaking _huge_ envelope. It was flipped so only the back was showing, and he couldn't read what it said, but by shifting his position again, he was able to draw both it and the book out.

He groaned slightly and pushed himself up into a sitting position with his back to the bed. After setting the book to his left, he focused his attention on the envelope because it turned out it really was an envelope, and really was huge. He turned it over in his hands. The top had been ripped open, and the paper had the sort of wear and tear that suggested its contents had been removed and repackaged countless times. _Samuel Winchester_ was printed on the front in neat block letters, and Dean's gaze drifted over the envelope to the little emblem in the corner. Despite the heat and the sweat still lingering on his brow, Dean froze.

Dean didn't know much about a lot of things, but he wasn't stupid or deaf or blind, and he heard what the other kids said when _he_ was a senior in high school. He could see the envelope here in front of him now. He could put two and two together, and he knew it equaled four, except right at that moment, two and two equaled five. Maybe Dean didn't know much about anything because that's the way he felt right then, but he knew Sam. He _knew _Sam, and while the envelope sitting in his hand made perfect sense because it was _classic_ Sam, it didn't make any sense because it wasn't at _all_ like Sam. It wasn't like Sam not to tell him.

He sat on the floor and stared at it, that little emblem in the corner, the minuscule letters that read _Stanford_. Dean wasn't stupid, and he knew that Stanford was a college. There was only one reason that Sam would be getting a letter from a college, and that was if he applied. So Sam applied to college, and so what? It didn't matter if he applied because that didn't mean he was going. They had to accept him first, and colleges cost money, _lots _of money. Sam didn't have that kind of money. No Winchester in the history of planet Earth had that kind of money.

He slid his fingers up the envelope to the opening at the top. His breath caught, and his fingers curled around the edges to tug at the papers inside, _so many papers_. Dean read the entire thing without really reading it, but enough words jumped out at him to understand what the paper was saying. Words like _accepted_ and _scholarship_ burned in his mind. He didn't really get it as he sat there frozen to the floor in the blazing heat, but he got it enough to know what was happening.

The clock on the nightstand told him it was almost noon, but it might as well have been broken because it meant nothing to him. Eventually, once he was done staring blankly at the pages before him, he stuffed them back into the envelope and dropped it on the bed as he stood. Somehow, the air felt heavier than before. The heat was even more intense and followed him in a sort of haze. Dean pushed the boxes and the duffel bag back under the bed. He stared at the envelope before scooping it up along with the book still on the floor and headed back to the kitchen.

He showered, but it took twice as long because halfway through he couldn't remember if he'd washed his hair or even if he'd touched the soap and had to do it again. Later he leafed through the book, eyes trained for the word _firefly_ and nothing else. He didn't see it, so he didn't call Dad, and some part of him was grateful for that. The clock was telling him it was two, and he realized he hadn't eaten since seven that morning, so he took out a piece of cold pizza. The heat was pressing in on him, though, and as he sat at the kitchen table, he felt both empty and full at the same time, or not so much full as heavy, like the heat and the world and Sam were pressing down on him. The packet was still staring at him on the table while the book had been shoved aside to a chair, and two plus two was still coming out to five.

It was three, and Dean had managed to douse some of the heat with beer. He hadn't touched the pizza, and the envelope was sitting with mocking innocence next to it. He didn't want to be here, didn't want to be doing this. He was watching the clock and suddenly it meant everything and still nothing because he knew that Sam's school got out at three. He knew it took Sam five minutes to walk to his locker and get everything he needed. He knew Sam usually spent another five minutes talking to whatever friends he'd _kind of _made at his current school. He knew that at _this school _it took Sam fifteen minutes to walk home when Dean wasn't there to pick him up. Dad had the car, so that meant Sam would be home in twenty-five minutes. The clock screamed at him during all this time, and his head screamed that this wasn't the way it should happen. This wasn't the way he wanted things between him and Sam to be, and yet as he watched the clock tick, he found that he couldn't help it.

His body weighed heavy with heat and maybe a little not-heat, and Dean downed another beer. He set it on the table, and there were three, two to one side of the table, and another to the other side. His gaze was unfocused but somehow managed to settle on the bottles, and some part of him thought _two plus two should equal four_. He thought briefly about getting another beer, just to make the saying true, but the logical part of him said that another one and he'd be verging on drunk. Right then he was just buzzed, a lot buzzed, but still just buzzed. Dean never listened to his logical part, though, so that was not about to change then, and instead he listened to his body, which was saying that it was too hot and too heavy to move all the way to the fridge.

The door slammed at twenty-five minutes after three, just as Dean _knew _it would, and there was a carefree call of, "Dean, let's go. It's damn hot out!" Dean didn't respond, just stared at his empty bottles and wished the fridge wasn't so far away. "Dean? You home?" Sam's voice was drawing closer. He appeared around the doorway and let his backpack slide from his arm to hit the floor of the kitchen with a thud that sounded vaguely final – like the end of everything. "Dean?" Dean's eyes were still on the beer, but he could feel Sam's gaze on him. "Dean, what is it? What's wrong? Is it Dad? Did something happen?" Sam must have been dense, and Dean wasn't sure how his little brother got away with being a hunter as he wasn't even noticing the signs right in front of him. Although, Dean thought sullenly, apparently Sam wasn't going to be a hunter much longer. "Are you hurt?" Sam's voice broke through the silence. Then his gaze fell to the table. Dean didn't look up, but even through the heat and the haze and the beer, he was completely aware of Sam. He could sense his gaze as it settled on the envelope and then the beer and then back on Dean. "Oh. Shit. Dean, where'd you get that?" His voice was low and laced with a number of emotions that Dean was too tired to try and sort out.

"Had to get a book," he managed to croak out, and one hand fell limply to gesture at the book on the chair.

"Shit, Dean, I was going to tell you. I really was. I didn't mean for…God, Dean, I'm so sorry…"

Sam's words didn't make sense. Two plus two still made five.

"When?" Dean asked, and he finally looked up, used more effort than he had to focus on Sam and lock their gazes. He didn't want to hear any bullshit stories now.

"I don't know. I didn't know how to tell you."

"You didn't know how to tell me you were leaving?"

"It's not like that, Dean."

Dean's head was up now, and his muscles were tense, but there was still just as much _everything _weighing in on him. "How the hell is it not like that, Sam? You're leaving, aren't you? You're leaving me, and you're leaving Dad, and what the hell more is there to it?"

"Dean…"

"God, Sammy." Dean shook his head, but the motion made his vision blur.

"Dean, I want to go to college. I want more than this. I thought maybe you'd get that. I'm not saying I expected you to be happy, but I thought maybe…that maybe…"

"What, Sammy, what the fuck did you think?"

"I don't want to leave _you_, Dean…I thought…I thought…" Just like that, two plus two made four again, and Dean got _exactly _what Sam was saying.

"Damn it, Sam!" Dean was on his feet, swayed a little, but didn't back down.

"Come on, Dean, would it be that bad? You could have more than this. You're smart, man. We could start over together."

"Sam, shut up! Just shut the fuck up! I'm not going anywhere! Apparently you are, but I'm sure as hell not! Okay? Dad needs us!"

"To hell with Dad, Dean! He doesn't control us. He doesn't control you! You can have your own life. He hunted for years on his own without either of us. What the hell makes you think he really needs you around?"

Dean ran a hand through his hair and let out a shout of frustration because this and that and, God, _none _of this could be happening. "Sam, this is our family! This is us! We're all we've got."

"We could have more."

"What the hell makes you think we need more?"

"This isn't any kind of life to live, Dean. Always on the road, running from the law, using credit card scams just to get by? And where was Dad, huh? We've basically been on our own since Mom died. You, more than anybody else, should get that – more than me even! Where'd your childhood go, Dean? You didn't have one. I barely had one. We can do better. We can get out, live real lives."

Dean's eyes were cold as he let out a harsh laugh. "So this isn't real, huh, Sammy? And here I was under the impression that we were some of the only people who knew what real was."

Sam clenched his jaw. There was a moment of silence that passed before he spoke again. His voice was quieter, and Dean took a deep breath as he spoke. "Dean, please…"

Dean straightened. "There's food in the fridge, Sammy. I'm going out." He moved to walk past Sam, but suddenly there was the feel of Sam's – Sammy's – hand wrapping around his arm.

"Dean, you can't go out."

Dean glared at him and demanded, "And why the hell not?"

"A few more beers and you're gonna be on-you're-ass-drunk."

Dean wrenched his arm from Sam's grasp. "That's what I'm aiming for. Don't wait up." He headed out the door.

The bar was damp and dark and had working air conditioning, thank the Lord. He was hunched at the counter with his head in his hands and a beer in front of him. He hadn't touched it, not yet. Despite what he told Sam, he didn't want to get drunk, not really. He wished he wanted to, it would make things easier, but it was his misfortune that he was still thinking clearly enough to know that in the long run, it wouldn't help. In the morning, when he woke, he'd have a hangover, and he'd be grumpy, and then absolutely nothing good would come from this situation. Not like anything good was going to come from this anyways (because Sammy? Sammy was leaving), but still, being drunk was not going to help him.

There was a woman behind the counter who was pretty, petite, and blonde. She smiled at Dean and kept asking him if he needed anything. He still hadn't touched his beer, so no, he didn't need anything, thank-you-very-much, and that included any of the special services she might offer, although he didn't say that out loud. Tonight he was not going to get drunk, and he was not going to screw around with some nameless girl. She wandered over in front of him, and Dean tossed her a tight smile, willing her to go away. In correspondence with today's luck, however, she didn't, just came closer.

"Something on your mind?" she asked with a honeysweet smile. Dean shot a glance at her but didn't respond right away. "Having issues with a lady friend?" Dean almost laughed out loud at the term 'lady friend' but didn't because, well, he really just wasn't in the laughing mood.

"No," he said bluntly.

"Care to share then?" she leaned on the counter in a way that was conveniently revealing and batted her eyes at him. Fine, if this woman wanted to be a pain in the ass, so be it.

"My kid brother got a full ride to Stanford," he said with a somehow brutal simplicity.

"Oh," she said. Her smile faltered a little as she continued hesitantly, "Isn't that something to be proud of?"

"Yup," Dean responded with a nod of his head and shrug of his shoulders.

"What is it then? You're jealous?"

"Nah," Dean said, and he smiled up at her. Naturally, Dean couldn't see his own smile, but it was evident from the effect it had on her that it was more than a little bit creepy. "Our family's just a little fucked up."

"You must be doing alright if your brother's going to Stanford."

"That's one way to look at it."

"What's the other way?"

"He's leaving." She nodded and tried to pretend she got it, but, of course, she didn't and finally walked off. Dean put his head back in his hands.

He deserved it, of course. Maybe Dean didn't want him to go, but there was no use in denying that Sam deserved whatever made him happy. If Stanford made him happy, then it sucked for Dean, and their family was about to get even more fucked up, but it was inevitable, wasn't it? Sam had always wanted more, and it was only a matter of time before he went out and got it. Sam was leaving, and there was nothing Dean could do about it.

He wanted Dean to come, though. That was almost laughable because it wasn't as though Sam didn't know that Dean would never leave Dad. He wanted like hell for Sam to stay with them, wanted like hell for Sam to stay with_ him_, but he wasn't going to traipse to California and ditch Dad just to stay with_ Sam_. That was probably stupid and hypocritical and a hundred other big words that Dean couldn't think of, but it was just the way things were. Sam knew that just as well as Dean did.

So Sam was leaving. He was going to pack up his bags and go off and get him self an education and a _real life_. God damn him. Fucking kid had to go and want more for himself, want the best for himself, and sure as hell Dean wanted what was best for Sam, but only half of him was seeing how education was the best because the other half was screaming _family, protection, safe, together._ Damn _it_. Kid always was gonna be the death of him.

Dean stared at his beer. He could picture it. He'd wander home drunk and climb in bed without a word to his brother. Morning would bring more heat and an alcohol-induced headache that left him struggling merely to tolerate life (and all the shit life brought with it). He and Sam wouldn't speak of any of this again and live in mutual silence until he left, until Sammy went and_ left_. There'd be no goodbye, no last words, and no_ words that had to be said_. Sam would leave, and things would be different, but maybe there wouldn't be this gut wrenching pain of what wasn't. It would be easy, or maybe not easy, but it'd be easi_er_.

That wasn't the way this was going to be. He looked at the beer one last time, and then dug through his wallet for a tip. The girl was fucking annoying, but he wasn't going to stiff her just because he was having a shitty day. Dean stood from his seat, beer still untouched, and left the bar.

Sam had obviously not listened to Dean and tried to stay up. He was sitting in a rather awkward looking position on the couch, mouth half open, and snoozing lightly. The TV flickered on some infomercial or another. Dean moved to it to switch it off swiftly. He strode into their room and dug through the basket of clothes by the door, found what he was looking for, and came back out into the living room. With one finger, he prodded Sam's shoulder. Sam woke slowly and groggily. "Dean?" he asked as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. "What the hell?" Dean stood in front of him and took a deep breath.

"When do you leave?" he asked firmly.

"Huh?"

"When – do – you – leave?" he repeated.

Sam blinked at him as he cocked his head to one side and replied, "Day after graduation."

"So that's what…three weeks?"

"Yeah," Sam replied dully. Dean grimaced because, well, _three fucking weeks_? Then his expression cleared, and he refocused on his brother.

"Well, then getup."

"Huh?" Sam asked again with another, slow blink.

"Get up, dude! We've got a hell of a lot to do in three weeks! GET UP!"

"My mistake, I thought for a moment there that you actually came home sober," Sam said, voice laced with biting sarcasm. Dean shoved the clothes he had dug out of the basket at him.

"I did."

"Well, then are you insane?"

Dean grinned as he said, "Probably."

Sam rolled his eyes and looked at the clothes Dean had handed him. "My swimsuit?" he asked.

"Yeah, Sammy, now go put it on!"

"It's almost midnight!"

"And you're wasting time! You can sleep in tomorrow. Get up!" Sam stood with a look of bewilderment as Dean yanked him from the couch and pushed him towards the bathroom.

"Why?" Sam called over his shoulder.

Dean's grin widened as he shouted back, "Because it's damn hot out!"

end

A/N: A sequel should be here before the weekend is up. Not should be - it will because I've HAVE to get it up. Must get it up. Grr. Yeah, anybody wanna guess at how many other times I've told myself that? Anyways, the sequel? Not happy. It's more of an angst-filled post-fic than a sequel. So, yeah, look out for that. One more thing...review (and I'll love you forever)!


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